


Rather the Fallen Angel

by MaryPSue



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Angst, Community: rotg_kink, Gen, Human Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. The war is over, the Golden Age secure, fear itself chained and caged away. That is, until someone suggests that the fearling army could be put to use against future enemies. There’s only one problem: The army needs a general.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt: http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/2389.html?thread=4653909#cmt4653909
> 
> One day I may stop beating up poor Koz. But it is not this day.

"I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel..."

\- Mary Shelley, _Frankenstein_

 

...

 

 

Everything hurts.  
  
Everything hurts, but especially his head, dull muffled throbbing like being repeatedly struck by a hammer wrapped in gauze, and a long line of fire sears from his chest down to the crook of his left elbow. Every muscle aches, a burning soreness that cuts right down to the bone.  
  
He cracks an eyelid and swiftly shuts it again; the world outside is swallowed up by brilliant white light.  
  
“At least this is the longest it’s taken for it to leave his system, sir.” Voice. Young, male, just a tinge of anxiety. Eager to impress? Afraid of embarrassing himself, more like it. Not a soldier. What, then?  
  
The only young men he knows are soldiers. And their fears quickly become much less trivial. Much deeper, much blacker, uglier and better-hidden, until something yanks them uncontrollably to the light –  
  
“If you think it’s cleared his system, then you need to work on your observational skills.” Voice. Closer. Deeper, too, authoritative. Familiar? No. Not a soldier, either. It’s still too bright. “If this doesn’t take, I don’t know what will.”  
  
“Well, obviously, sir, since we haven’t developed -”  
  
“Do you know the meaning of the word ‘rhetorical’?”  
  
 _Rhetorical_. Does not expect an answer. None of his questions are rhetorical. Something. Something’s missing. Some _one_. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a moan.  
  
“How are you feeling, General?” Second voice. Close, too close. Shadow, across his eyelids. No relief, though. The burning is spreading, up his neck, the headache turning sharp.  
  
Shadow, retreating as quickly as it appeared. Light is unforgiving.  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“Is he experiencing withdrawal?”  
  
“Did you want me to be monitoring for that, sir?” Anxiety stronger now.  
  
“Hm. No. It’s not so important.” Clack of shoes against floor. “It’s not as though we’re trying to _decrease_ his dependency. Speaking of which, it’s high time for another dose.”  
  
“Sir.”  
  
Rustling. Brain is burning, now – too bright – too hot, too bright –  
  
Pain. Short, sharp zing at the crook of his elbow. Blissful cool obliterating the burning, running soothing through his veins –  
  
cold –  
  
too cold –  
  
the icy bite of the darkness between stars flooding through him –  
  
falling  
  
…  
  
 _“Daddy!”  
  
she's bright, only light in the dark, running straight towards him –  
  
bursts into butterflies before he can wrap his arms around her  
  
dark swirling, curling, speaking familiar voices  
  
“They’re closing on us what do we do? Sir?”  
  
“You’re leaving? Again?”  
  
“Will you read me a bedtime story?”  
  
“It was you, General. I believed in you.”  
  
“We all miss you, Kozmotis. More than you know.”  
  
  
  
  
  
there is a light_  
  
…  
  
on fire he’s on fire he’s on _fire_  
  
“I can’t do anything with him thrashing around like this.”  
  
“But the restraints are already buckled as tightly as they’ll go, and the sedative wears off almost as soon as we give it to him. What do you want me to do?”  
  
burning he’s _burning_ from the inside out and from the outside in and he screams long and loud and hoarse  
  
“Just dim the damn lights!”  
  
scurrying feet  
  
blissful dark  
  
“There. Is that better, General?”  
  
no there’s fire inside, still burning, his heart flares like a small sun with every beat  
  
“Get me another hundred milligrams.”  
  
“But we’ve already given him -”  
  
“I thought I just gave you an order?”  
  
Silence. Screaming. The supernova they hadn’t seen coming, the death of a venerable star, the flash of blindinglightsearingheat that had disintegrated the ship’s shields and flung them spiraling out of the Constellation and into the freezing depths of space. Unprotected, into the airless dark and the chill that cuts to the bone –  
  
the sting of a needle –  
  
his heart is a black hole  
  
…  
  
 _“Catch me!”  
  
she’s laughing, but this isn’t a game  
  
“Daddy, catch me!”  
  
she runs towards him and he reaches out arms won’t move tied down strapped down and she leaps –_  
  
…  
  
It’s dark.  
  
They’ve let the light go out. How irresponsible.  
  
He’s bound, but this is really no obstacle, not now that the light is no longer glaring down on him. He reaches –  
  
\- shadow sings –  
  
\- light slams back into him like a fist.  
  
“Did you see that?” Voice. Male. Young. Unfamiliar. Too exuberant for its own good. “Did you _see_ that?”  
  
“We’ll have some real progress to report to Countess Venatici when she checks in, after all.” Voice. Deep. Steady. _Relieved_? “Thank the stars our efforts haven’t been in vain.”  
  
“If he can do _that_ to ordinary shadows -”  
  
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. There’s no guarantee that he’ll be able to command the fearlings as well.” And now there’s worry there, silly presumptuous worry. Why is this voice afraid of disappointing someone who isn’t here? Why, when it should be terrified of what’s under its own nose?  
  
Too bright for shadows here. Too damn much _light_ –  
  
“We’ll have to test it, then! He’s progressing so much faster than even you thought, sir.”  
  
Finally a little anxiety. “I know. That’s what worries me.” So the owner of this voice does use his brain, after all. “I think we should keep the lights on him until it starts to wear off again.”  
  
“But sir, you know he hasn’t really gone into full withdrawal since -”  
  
“Until there’s some change, then. And keep monitoring him.”  
  
A sigh, grudging. The owner of the younger voice is either too blindly optimistic or too stupid to realize the danger he’s in. “Yes, sir.”  
  
“And don’t let them give him another dose.”  
  
…  
  
 _“Daddy? Where are you going?”  
  
wants to shout back, tell her he’s not going anywhere, he’ll always be here for her –  
  
no sound comes  
  
slipping, sliding away from her, can’t move, sinking further and further into the greedy dark  
  
“Don’t leave me here alone!”_  
  
…  
  
light  
  
too bright, the world washed out, devoured, burning into his eyes like a young sun  
  
“Oh good, he’s coming to.” Voice. Male, deep, authoritative.  
  
He groans, shuts his eyes again.  
  
“No, General, no going back to sleep just yet.”  
  
He snarls, and curses the fact that his tongue doesn’t seem to want to obey him.  
  
“That was uncalled-for.”  
  
He forces himself to open his eyes. Blurry shapes overhead, bright shadows under the glare of the light. A gasp, feminine, shocked but not truly frightened, from his right. “Stars…”  
  
“As I told you, we’ve made quite a lot of progress since you last came to visit.” The first voice, satisfaction dripping from every syllable.  
  
“I wouldn’t have thought it possible.” Voice. Female, older. Appreciative. Familiar? “And you really think this will be the key to controlling them?”  
  
“Madam, I can assure you that we performed extensive testing before the experiment began. Our enemies lack proper leadership, but respond well to a display of command. Unfortunately, only from their own kind.”  
  
“A most serious difficulty if one intends to use them as infantry, I presume.” There’s a tone to the female voice’s vowels, rounded somehow. Regal. He would bow, but he is –  
  
Flat on his back. He tries to raise his arms, to shift slightly, but finds himself bound firmly in place. A growl bubbles up from his chest.  
  
“Mind your manners, General. You are in the presence of a lady.” The bright shadow with the woman’s voice reaches down, brushes cool fingertips across his forehead. When she speaks again, it’s not to him. “Amazing. You do good work, Doctor. And it’s been painful for him?”  
  
The male voice sounds taken aback when he says, “It has, unfortunately, often appeared to be -”  
  
“Good.” Her voice is firm, surprisingly so. Her shadow falls across his face as she leans down. “It’s no more than you deserve,” she whispers, sweetly, and he shuts his useless eyes when she presses soft lips against his forehead.  
  
“I - would advise you not to do that,” the other voice warns her, sounding shocked. “I can’t guarantee your safety from contamination -”  
  
“I’ve lived through worse,” the lady’s voice scoffs. He hears her shoes against the floor as she retreats. “I shall send word next time I am in the city. We wouldn’t want the good General to get too lonely.”  
  
The door shuts behind her with a soft hiss.  
  
“I’m sorry,” the man’s voice says, and for the first time sounds like a real person.  
  
Then there’s something sharp in his arm and the cold tears through him like a blade and the dark is climbing up behind his eyeballs and he’s  
  
falling  
  
…  
  
 _“Daddy? Where are you?”  
  
“I’m here, Sera, I’m right here,” he breathes, she’s close enough to touch and she’s so bright against the dark –  
  
“I can’t see you! Are you there?”  
  
“Sera?”  
  
“Daddy?” She’s looking around wildly, turns and walks right _ through _him –_

…

The walls are white.  
  
The room is entirely bare, windowless save for a long expanse of dark glass along one wall, and without a door. The lights are harsh, too bright, not burning but close.  
  
His arms are free. Legs too. Unbound. _Free_. Within four walls with no door, that is.  
  
He doesn’t trust this.  
  
“Do you really think we should have started him off so soon?”  
  
“We don’t really have a choice, do we? The countess wants results before the week is out.” Voices. Muffled. Behind the glass? It seems likely. Observers. This must be a test. His hand goes instinctively to his hip, reaching for a sword that isn’t there.  
  
“Why does she -”  
  
“Who knows? Why did she decide to fund this experiment?”  
  
“Point taken.” Something, not quite anxiety. Revulsion. “Why one of the Constellations would bother getting their hands dirty with something like this -”  
  
“Enough chit-chat.” Voice. Deep, authoritative. By now, familiar. “Is everything in place?”  
  
“Shouldn’t we give him a weapon? Just in case.”  
  
He bites back a laugh at that. Obviously not a soldier. You don’t give a captive a weapon. Not if you don’t want to lose your captive, and your head.  
  
The lights dim, suddenly, guttering out into darkness. He tenses, pushes himself up and to his feet. He tries to ignore how he has to pause to catch his breath, the leaden way his legs feel, like they’re about to give way beneath him. Whatever the test is, it’s coming, and it’s coming now, whether he’s ready or not.  
  
There’s a faint hiss and a section of wall slides away, a small black square opening in the blank expanse. He can sense them before he can see them, the crawling sensation of icy terror just under his skin. Fearlings – not many, or the feeling would be stronger, not just this faint prickling of awareness.  
  
 _three_  
  
He’s not sure how he knows, but when they spill out into the white room, inky black spots of shapeless darkness, there are indeed three of them. They wouldn’t be much trouble if he weren’t so weak, if he just had a weapon, something with an edge –  
  
A _bang_ from behind the glass, shouts, a flare of light muffled by the darkness of the glass, and the fearlings turn as a wave of panic floods out and fills the small space. He takes advantage of the distraction to scan the room again, look for something he can use, keeping one ear open for the shouts.  
  
“What in Brightness is the meaning of this?”  
  
“Damn good question! Why don’t _you_ tell _me_?” New voice. _Familiar_ voice. Anger a thin veneer over a fear that thrums _too late, too late, too late_ like a heartbeat.  
  
“Where’s Kozmotis?” Voice, tense and steely, so familiar he could cry. “We know he’s here. You have to be the biggest idiots in the galaxies to think you could get away with kidnapping _the Golden General_.”  
  
“Kidnapping?” Not-a-soldier, voice shaking. Afraid for his life. “But – she said he’d volunteered -”  
  
“Volunteered for _what_?”  
  
Silence, the hum of mounting terror –  
  
The shout of “NO!” comes too late. The black glass explodes outward in a million glittering shards. The light that lances out of the empty frame isn’t enough to deter the fearlings, inky bodies flowing up the wall without regard for gravity and straight for the figures framed against the light, the source of all that delicious confusion and fear –  
  
 _He_ knows _those voices_  
  
His scream is wordless, loud and angry and three blotches of shadow freeze in the frame of the broken window. He pours every drop of his decades of command into the single word, the first he’s spoken since the beginning of this ordeal, because those are his friends and he’ll be damned before he’ll see them fall.  
  
 _“Back.”_  
  
The fearlings fight him at first, but he tangles shadow into the core of one and pulls it to him, like a dog on a leash. The other two are quick to retreat after that, slithering back into the little square door they came from. It shuts behind them with a faint whisper.  
  
Faces appear in the window, faces he knows, fear turning to relief when their eyes meet his. Relief twisting quickly into horror. The major-general is the first to break the silence. “Kozmotis?”  
  
He can’t help the smile, wide and genuine. “It took you idiots long enough.”  
  
That’s when his exhaustion catches up to him, and his legs finally give way.  
  
…  
  
 _There’s a sob in her voice this time. “Oh, Daddy.”  
  
“Sera?”  
  
“Shh. I’m here.”_  
  
…  
  
He wakes in a bed, in a white room, and for a minute panic grips him before he discovers that he isn’t bound. The lights are soft, dim, bottled starlight he thinks. Like the blade of his scythe. Like her nightlight.  
  
“It’s not too bright for you, is it, Daddy?”  
  
She’s there. It’s not a dream, she’s there, beside the bed. He reaches out and takes her hand, and that’s real too, real and soft and warm and _there_. Her grip is firm and strong and unwavering.  
  
“Sera?”  
  
Her smile is starglow and sunshine. “Welcome back."  
  
…  
  
He dozes, slips in and out of sleep. Every time he opens his eyes, a new face is seated across from Seraphina. The brigadier and the major-general – names elude him, but ranks do not – are there most often, the one with a shock of red hair and a constant expression of gleeful expectation, the other dark and deeply relieved beneath his stony look. Sometimes they tell stories, stories that begin with ‘remember that time when…’ Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t.  
  
Sometimes the visitor is a nurse or a doctor, instead of an old friend. He panics the first time one of the doctors tries to take a sample of his blood, and Seraphina has to talk him down before he can strangle the doctor with a tendril of shadow.  
  
The shadows obey him now, move at a thought like extensions of himself. He can feel the shape and taste of people’s fears without even trying. The doctors hum and haw and try things with stardust and leeches that have no effect but to burn him and leave him even weaker.  
  
Seraphina never leaves.  
  
Every time he wakes, she’s there, within reach, sometimes reading, sometimes sleeping herself, but always, always there. Once, half-asleep, he tells her, “I don’t deserve you,” and she goes stiff.  
  
“It’s all right.”  
  
“It’s not. I’m your father. I should be there for you, not the other way around.”  
  
She’s quiet for so long that he nearly falls asleep again. And when she does speak, it’s only to whisper, “I thought this time I’d lost you for good.”  
  
He wants to tell her that he was afraid of the same thing, but everything is heavy and his eyes won’t stay open.  
  
…  
  
He wakes, and the Tsar Lunanoff is at his bedside.  
  
He should bow, should show his deference somehow, but he’s lying in this hospital bed and –  
  
“General.” The Tsar’s voice is soft, reassuring. “Please, don’t try to get up. I understand you’ve been through quite a lot these past few weeks.”  
  
That’s an understatement. “Sir.”  
  
The Tsar has a surprisingly kind smile for such a stern face. “I’m afraid I must take a portion of the blame. It was reported to me that you had chartered a ship for the Ursas, for a pleasure cruise before your next posting. I didn’t think to question it until Seraphina and I met at a ball and compared stories.”  
  
Kozmotis glances up at his daughter, and she frowns down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “They told me that you’d already accepted the next posting. That you’d left for Andromeda.”  
  
“Without even saying goodbye?”  
  
Her nod is small and tense.  
  
“And you believed them?”  
  
This time, she doesn’t move for nearly a full minute. The nod is even smaller.  
  
He breathes out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”  
  
The Tsar clears his throat. “It’s just fortunate that we found out. One of the scientists gave us the whole story in exchange for amnesty. The former Countess Venatici apparently found out about his theory that he could give someone the power to command an army of fearlings, and provided funding and a test subject. They were under the impression that you’d agreed to the procedure.”  
  
“Why would she – we don’t even know each other! Do we?”  
  
It’s the Tsar who answers. “According to the former Countess, it was nothing personal, merely her attempt to contribute to the Constellations’ defenses.”  
  
“That’s a _lie_. She wanted to see me in pain, she said -”  
  
“Daddy, lie _down_.” Seraphina’s voice is thick with concern. “You’ll just wear yourself out.”  
  
He’s feeling stronger than he has in days, but she’s probably right nonetheless. Kozmotis settles back against the pillows, still fuming.  
  
“Wasn’t it a Venatici who was with you when you lost the _Inspiration_?” she asks, after a moment.  
  
“The what?”  
  
“That ship that fell to the dark. Half the crew were killed, the other half turned? You wouldn’t talk about it for nearly a year afterward. Weren’t you escorting Tyl Venatici on that voyage?”  
  
He sighs. “That would explain a lot, wouldn’t it.” Consign the man who’d let her son be corrupted to a similar fate. There is a sort of poetic justice to the idea.  
  
The Tsar clears his throat, politely. “One way or another, the woman responsible has been stripped of her title and estates. The experiment has been shut down, and their research confiscated. This won’t be allowed to happen again.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“But I have to ask…” The Tsar’s look turns scrutinous. “Your doctors are baffled. No one knows how to reverse what’s been done. And based on Major-General Alkes’ report, you corralled three fearlings with nothing more than, and I quote, ‘shadows and sheer bloody-mindedness’.”  
  
It doesn’t take a seer to know where this is going. “No.”  
  
The Tsar keeps talking, apparently unaware of his general’s answer. “I understand this must be painful for you, but if there is truly no way to go back… We could use your – ah – talents -”  
  
“I said no.”  
  
The Tsar blinks. “You wouldn’t consider -”  
  
“No. No Black General. No more Golden General, either.” He takes a deep breath. “I wish to resign my commission.”  
  
The room goes deathly still.  
  
Surprisingly, it’s Seraphina who first objects. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes. I’m sure.”  
  
“But you always said -”  
  
“The war is over, Sera. Sir.” He nods to the Tsar, who inclines his head in turn. “Alkes is a good man, he’ll do well in command. And if some monstrous new threat should arise, well, you’ll know where I am. But for now…my daughter is safe.” And he doesn’t mean for his voice to drop as it does when he says, “And I intend to make certain she never again thinks I would _ever_ leave her without saying goodbye.”  
  
“Daddy, you don’t have to do this.”  
  
He reaches out, takes her hands in his. “I want to.”  
  
The words aren’t enough. He doesn’t know how to say it, though. She’s safe, and that’s all that matters. All that’s ever mattered. She’s safe, and he wants nothing more than to take her home and never leave her again.

…

The Tsar insists on a ceremony to mark the General's retirement.  
  
It takes weeks, months if he’s perfectly honest, before he’s strong enough to tolerate light brighter than the dim nightlight-glow of secondhand starlight, strong enough to stand on his own. When the brigadier suggests he offer some excuse to the gentry for his extended convalescence, Kozmotis demands that, instead, the truth be circulated. They’ll talk anyway; might as well have them chattering about the facts.  
  
Sometimes he’s better, sometimes he’s worse. The nightmares come and go, as do the bouts of wracking, burning pain, and, every so often, the days when someone’s terror fills him with a foreign strength and desire, as though he were born for the dark and the dark for him. Seraphina avoids speaking to him on these days, though she watches him with the eye of a hawk. Even she's a little afraid of him, though she'd never admit it out loud.  
  
And though he’d never admit it out loud, her fear is the sweetest of all.  
  
The day comes when he can walk more than five shaky unsupported steps across the garden, when the clamour of worries and anxieties no longer renders him incapable of being in the presence of more than four people at once. And it isn’t many days later that the summons comes from the Lunanoffs, requesting his presence at a celebration of the Golden Age’s greatest hero.  
  
He can’t breathe the first time he puts on his old dress uniform. The weight of the medals on his chest is almost suffocating, and the high collar threatens to choke him. When Seraphina finds him, he’s flat on the floor with his coat torn half-off, staring up at the ceiling surrounded by bright medals and gold braid, the room seething with darkness.  
  
It’s all hollow. The Golden General is fallen, tarnished, _gone_. Kozmotis Pitchiner is a shadowed man, damaged beyond repair. Putting on this charade feels like nothing so much as reanimating a corpse.  
  
But it is all he knows, and all he’s ever known, and it comes back to him as easily as the steps to a half-forgotten dance. And before he knows it, he is here, walking up the aisle between rows of seats to the dais at the front of the hall, barely flinching from its golden resplendence and the glow from the massive chandeliers overhead. _Shoulders back, head up, just like on parade. Count time, and the steps come back. Your feet know them even if your head doesn’t._  
  
A ripple of mutterings, accompanied by a faint and growing sense of unease, spreads in his wake. The stories have no doubt reached the ears of every person in attendance – General Pitchiner has fallen to the dark, has become some nightmarish monster – and his continued absence from the public eye will only have fed the rumours. It doesn’t help that for once, they’re all true. This is the first time much of the upper crust has seen his – ah – makeover, and they’re all seeing their fears made flesh.  
  
A smile, sardonic but small enough to hide behind military pride, curls across his face at the thought.  
  
The dais is wide, two shallow steps leading up to it, which he mounts without breaking stride. He stops before the Tsar, cuts a precise and deferential bow.  
  
“General Kozmotis Pitchiner. You have served us worthily and well, and in your time in our service have been lauded with nearly every honour we could present. And now, on the eve of your departure, it is we who are honoured to present you with this.”  
  
It’s another medal, a little silver crescent moon with a tiny, shimmering moonstone between the prongs. The Order of Lunar, the highest accolade anyone can receive, for outstanding service and dedication. There hasn’t been one awarded in a thousand years.  
  
Another little piece of useless metal to add to the weight on his chest. He barely manages to hold the polite smile as the Tsar pins it into place just above his heart.  
  
“Thank you,” the Tsar says. “For everything you’ve done, for everything you’ve sacrificed. We won’t forget how you secured the Golden Age for us.”  
  
He looks up, and meets the Tsar’s eyes. “No, thank _you_.” The crowd flutters at this deviation from the script. His fingers curl around the shadow that slips into his hand, coalescing into a familiar shape. “For handing it to me on a silver platter.”  
  
He holds the Tsar’s gaze as he steps forwards and, almost casually, stabs the man through the stomach with the black blade.  
  
The reaction is instant. The audience is in chaos, an uproar of screams and shouts like the finest symphony, their terror rolling in toward him like a tide. The Tsarina screams the loudest, reaching for her husband even as one of the guards tries to drag her to safety. The other guards are quickly overwhelmed, their fear as they struggle against the rising tide of dark a bright and bitter counterpart to the sweetness of the audience’s blind panic. But sweetest of all is seeing the betrayal writ large across the Tsar’s face, the dawning horror as he realizes the fate he’s condemned his world to.  
  
“Koz -”  
  
“I think not.” He grabs the Tsar by the throat, cutting off the rest of the word. “You can call me Pitch.”  
  
There’s a crack of bone, and the Tsar’s head falls limp on a broken neck. The Tsarina’s anguished howl falls on deaf ears as the newly-minted Nightmare King tosses the body aside, leaving the sword still buried in its gut to disintegrate into wisps of shadow.  
  
The crowd has fallen eerily silent, attention riveted on the dais. Somewhere, a child whimpers, only to be hurriedly shushed. The doors are barred by a wall of inky bodies; no one is leaving this hall. The aristocracy of the Golden Age, the leaders and the warriors, the great heads of state, all gathered in one room and all terrified out of their minds. All watching him like an animal watches the predator about to strike.  
  
He smiles, like a shark.  
  
And the lights go out.


	2. Coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this to tumblr as a response to a writing meme a good year after finishing the fic. Figured I might as well have it here as well.

Seraphina hadn’t really wanted to attend her father’s retirement ceremony, but she’d felt she ought to, just to put in an appearance, be there if he needed her. And she’d stuck to that, even when her father had tried to persuade her that she really didn’t need to, that he would be fine on his own, that she’d done more than enough for him already. She’d been certain that he needed her there, but was simply too stubborn to ask.

It wasn’t until the screaming started that she realised her mistake. By then, it was already too late. She got caught in the crush when the lights went out, dragged away from the main stage and swept up by the crowd  trying to escape through doors that were already sealed shut. She was thrown up against one, slammed into it by the press of panicked people until she couldn’t breathe, could barely think. She didn’t dare to contemplate why the pressure slowly decreased until she could breathe again, why the screams slowly died away and the crowd thinned out, why a flood of icy, numbing terror crept over her and turned her limbs to lead even as she rattled the lock of the huge, heavy door uselessly.

“Please,” she sobbed, and the word came out ragged and small, a helpless gasp in the oppressive dark which suddenly had eyes, golden ones, fixed upon her, pinning her like a butterfly to a piece of card. She hadn’t felt this helpless, this wildly and hopelessly terrified, since she’d been small and there had still been shadows haunting the stars, and her pleas spilled out uninvited, just as childish as her fear. “Please, please, Daddy, open the door. Let me go.”

The brush of chill, inky fingers against her cheek was cold and unexpected, and she flinched back, away from the touch, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing herself against the door as though she could melt through it.

“Oh, Sera,” her father’s voice sighed from a little distance, warm and reassuring even as the chill from his touch began to sink in, burrowing into her until she thought she’d forget what it meant to be warm, “I’ll never let you go again.”


End file.
